


Pandora

by JenniferJF



Category: Sanctuary - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Backstory, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-19
Updated: 2009-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:36:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferJF/pseuds/JenniferJF





	1. Shadows

He had begun the business quite properly with a visit to her father. Despite having heard tales of the place, he'd never actually been invited in before, so when the butler showed him in to Gregory Magnus's study, he couldn't help but gaze in awe at the wonders confronting him. Improbably arranged skeletons stood amongst piles of ancient tomes and the occasional even older scroll; sketches on the walls depicted bizarre creatures in equally strange locations. Only the seriousness of his purpose saved him from complete distraction.

Doctor Magnus gestured to a chair in front of his desk. John dutifully took the offered seat. After a long moment in which he could practically feel his gaze dissecting him, Magnus said, "You wished to speak to me?"

John forced himself to look the other man squarely in the eyes. Magnus's presence was formidable. Gathering his courage, he began. "Dr. Magnus. Sir. I've come about your daughter, Helen."

Magnus smiled slightly - knowingly - and John was certain the other man knew exactly why he'd come. "I do know my own daughter's name, Mr. Druitt." It would seem despite his insight he wasn't about to make it easy.

"Yes, Sir. Of course." John took a deep breath before speaking, "Doctor Magnus, I've known your daughter for some time, both during the last few years at Oxford and lately here in London. During that period, she has earned both my truest affection and my deepest respect, and I have reason to believe this may not be entirely one-sided…" He paused, looking at Magnus for some sign of encouragement. The man's face was as impassive as ever. Still, John could not let that dissuade him. He quickly continued, "Sir, I'm asking for your permission to make a proposal of marriage to your daughter. I can't promise much, having an annual income sufficient only for the simplest of lifestyles, but I should be graduating from Oxford at the end of Hillary, and my tutor holds high hopes…"

Magnus cut him off with a gesture and amused expression. "Mr. Druitt, such a recital is quite unnecessary as I possibly know more about your qualifications and potential than you do yourself. Indeed, my daughter has been quite vocal on the subject." He paused, smiling significantly, and John couldn't prevent hope from blossoming within him. "And yet, young man, such things are never as easy as they ought to be. You do realize, I'm certain, that my daughter is studying to become a physician. No easy feat for anyone, and an almost impossible one for a young woman. "

"Yes, sir. In fact, you may or may not be aware that I am by way of being her very first patient.."

"She has kept me abreast of certain… events… yes. "

"Then you must understand I could never change - would never _wan_ t to change - that part of who she is. Your daughter, sir, is the most amazing person I have ever known, and I would never let my l… admiration of her get in the way of what she is or who she can become."

Magnus studied him for another long moment, clearly weighing the sincerity of his words, before concluding. "Well, Mr. Druitt. To be completely frank with you, I've never held with the notion that any of this was my business in the first place. And while I'll admit you might not be my first choice for my daughter's husband, you would certainly also not be my last."

John could hardly believe his ears. "Sir.. Do you mean?"

Now Magnus really was smiling. "Yes, Mr. Druitt. You have my permission to marry my daughter. Always assuming, of course, that she'll have you."

-o-o-o-o-o-

He had started out properly enough, but there was nothing proper about where he found himself now. He had proposed to Helen earlier that evening, and to his great joy his proposal had been accepted without hesitation. After a slow and circuitous route which neither could pretend had any purpose other than to extend the evening as long as possible, he had returned her to her father's doorstep. The feel of her hand pressed to his lips in parting was already fading, and yet had still stood at the threshold. He could not return to the solitude of his own chambers; sleep was impossible.

So he walked. For hours he wandered, anonymous through the streets of London, populated even at that late hour. Inevitably, however, his steps brought him back to her doorstep. And to her. The lights had gone out in the rooms below and in the chambers above. The household slept.

But he knew he still could not. Not while everything he truly cared about slept above, so close and yet still just out of his reach. For now.

Only… Not completely. The injections he and the others had taken the winter before at Oxford had left him changed, and under Helen's care and guidance he had learned to control his newfound power which, uncontrolled, had threatened to destroy him. Which meant that, now, he had a choice. And so, knowing it was wrong but helpless to resist, he'd stepped into a nearby alley… and into the darkness of her chamber above.

He stood there now, draped in the shadows against the wall, watching as she slept. The yellow glow of the gaslights outside slanted through the window, falling across her face, illuminating her features. Even in repose, or possibly especially so, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It was enough simply to be in her presence, knowing she was his - or soon would be. The enormity of that overwhelmed him.

Helen stirred in her sleep and he stepped back, deeper into the shadows. The motion must have disturbed her further for her eyes opened, looking straight into his through the darkness. His heart froze, awaiting her reaction.

Unbelievably, she smiled. "You shouldn't be here," she observed, but there was no trace of scolding in her tone.

"Yes. But I couldn't bear being anywhere else." She nodded, her smile widening slightly in understanding. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"It's alright." They both knew she wasn't speaking about being awake.

"Now, go back to sleep."

She nodded again and rolled back onto her side and within minutes her breathing had returned to the soft rhythms of sleep. John was gone long before she awoke in the morning, but he returned the next night and on many nights to follow and, though she sometimes woke to find him, neither ever mentioned his silent vigils in the cold harsh light of day.


	2. Slipping

It was one of those rare autumn days, both for England and in her experience even more so for Oxford, which were not merely warm but over which the sun shone down brightly through a clear blue sky. And rarer still, this remarkable convergence occurred on a Saturday when neither exams nor deadlines loomed over the horizon of the new week. So when John showed up at the door of Helen's boarding house that morning with a punting pole in one hand, a picnic basket in the other, and a hopeful smile on his face, she hadn't been at all surprised. Especially as he'd been threatening for months to drag her down to the Thames for that very purpose and had even been receiving instruction in the art from Griffin - a self-proclaimed expert - against the day.

After their first ten minutes on the river, for it had taken that long for John to feel confident in his new ability, she had found the experience surprisingly pleasant. Quite possibly this was because, nestled as she was in the boat's prow, she could watch John without apology as he stood at the stern, pushing them through the water. Long-fingered hands firmly gripping the pole, the smooth flow of muscles beneath the soft silk of his shirt, a single bead of sweat which slowly tracked down his temple under the exertion…

As though sensing her gaze, he looked up suddenly, catching her watching him. She dropped her eyes, pretending fascination with the fingers she trailed lazily through the water, hoping he couldn't see her spreading blush beneath the brim of her hat. "You were right," she finally said once she was certain she could trust her own voice. "We should have done this earlier."

He chuckled deep in his throat. "It wouldn't exactly have been acceptable before our betrothal."

She glanced up sharply at his words. The flash in his eyes as he caught hers left no doubt but that his double meaning had been intentional. His ability to read her… mind… could be alarming. "John," she chided.

John bowed his head in acceptance of the rebuke, but the slight smile on his lips made it clear his chastisement was feigned When he lifted his eyes back to hers, though, bright with amused understanding, she couldn't help herself. She laughed, and his laughter joined with hers. She shook her head in defeat. "You're incorrigible."

He nodded, "Yes." Then, mercifully, he changed the subject. Gesturing towards the basket sitting between them, he asked, "Lunch?"

Imagining sitting on the secluded river bank beside John made her wonder if he'd really changed the subject after all, and also whether he'd been reading her own thoughts as much as acknowledging his own.

She nodded in response to his question. He shifted the pole, preparing to steer the punt towards shore. As he did, however, a sudden increase in current combined with his change in position, unbalancing him completely. He teetered for one moment, almost regaining control, before succumbing inevitably to gravity and toppling head-over-heels into the Thames.

"John!" she cried, but before she could even lean over to look for him he had resurfaced, head bobbing above the water, sputtering for air. "Are you all right?"

He grinned sheepishly. "Yes… Though I appear to have bruised my ego."

She laughed "Well, if that's all… Get me to shore and I promise this will remain our little secret forever."

It took several minutes and no inconsiderable maneuvering, but eventually John did manage to get both Helen and the punt to shore. Even more importantly, he did it the old-fashioned way, managing to reclaim the pole from where it rested on the river bed and, after several attempts, getting himself back into the boat instead of toppling her into the water. It wasn't until they were sitting next to each other on the picnic blanket while John took a moment to catch his breath that Helen realized he wasn't truly 'all right.'

Her hand flew up to the red line which slashed across his left jaw line. "John, you're hurt."

His hand followed hers. "Am I?"

She shifted to kneel next to him, examining the cut which was only starting to show now that he was out of the water. "Yes… Just a minute…" She grabbed her handkerchief and dabbed at his face. The cloth came away bright red. "You really ought to get this stitched up. It's bleeding quite heavily."

He smiled, that exact mixture of pride and affection which, even under the circumstances, threatened to distract her. "Can't you do it, Doctor?"

"I could," she reluctantly admitted, "But I think it should be done by someone who has actually completed their training and has a bit more experience. It is on your face, after all."

"And yet, the injury's hardly likely to last out the day, whatever we do."

She sighed and nodded in agreement. His logic was irrefutable. While each member of The Five had reacted differently to The Source, one trait, at least, appeared more universal. Within a day of the injection, a molar Helen had lost in a childhood riding accident had spontaneously regrown and an old scar Tesla had received during an incident occurring years earlier involving rapiers and honor disappeared as though it had never existed. Whatever else they may have gained from the ancient blood, it seemed clear they had each received the vampires' gift of regeneration which, if the records were correct, conferred a longevity bordering on immortality. Barring fatal injuries, of course, and possibly swift diseases.

"Then there's really no need to disrupt this glorious afternoon for something which is in actuality so minor," he concluded triumphantly,

"You're still dripping wet…"

"I'll dry."

"John…"

"Helen…"

She couldn't help but laugh as he echoed her tone perfectly. Deciding to try a different tactic, she asked, "Please? Humour me? Just port back to your room and change into something dry. It will only take a few minutes…"

"A few minutes out of your presence."

Helen rolled her eyes. "We have all eternity, John. Or close to it…" she reminded him.

His face lit with unrepressed joy at the reminder, and she knew she had won. "Then, as you wish," he began. But, just as she thought he was about to teleport away, he leaned in towards her, stealing a kiss. It wasn't their first, but it was still new enough that for a moment she forgot everything in the thrill of it.

And before she could remember she ought to protest, in a flash of red, he was gone.


	3. And Falling

She stood outside the lecture hall, seeking futilely one familiar figure amongst the crowd of black-robed students entering the building. The lecture was scheduled to begin in less than five minutes and she was beginning to get nervous. Well, more than nervous. John hadn't attended Sunday service the day before, nor had he made contact later in the day to explain his absence. The note she had left for him had gone unanswered, and he had missed their customary luncheon rendezvous. None of their mutual acquaintances had seen him since Saturday, either. By now, she was outright worried.

The last cluster of students entered the hall, and Helen went with them. As she took her seat, her thoughts returned unbidden to the problem at hand. John had missed this lecture as he had everything else in the last two days. Something was terribly wrong, and she had to discover what it was. Could he have possibly lost control of his power somehow? Or teleported into the wrong place…? What if…?

She stopped her non-productive imaginings and tried in vain to concentrate on the words of the don standing behind the podium. Her thoughts returned unavoidably to John and what might have happened to him. How regrettable that James had graduated last term. Alone, she had no idea where to even begin to search for answers.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

He had watched from a concealing archway across the quad as she had entered the lecture hall that afternoon, a bright swath of color amongst the black and white of the official students. He could feel her worry even at that distance and had longed to go to her, to let her know he was all right and to alleviate her concern.

But he could not. He knew now there was no real comfort to be had. So, torn between his need to stop her worry and his need to prevent her further pain, he had done nothing. Only now, in the quiet of the night, the loneliness threatened to overwhelm him. He missed her terribly. And it had only been two days.

Unable to stop himself, he did the only thing he could.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

She recognized the distinctive red flash the moment she saw it.

"John!" She sat straight up in bed, forgetting even common modesty in the joy of finding him safe. He stepped back against the wall, obviously unprepared to find her awake. She feared he might bolt. "No. Don't go."

"Helen.. I…"

The dark hid his expression; the agony in his tone froze her heart. "Dearest, what is it? What's wrong?"

"I hoped you slept."

"I couldn't sleep."

A strangulated sound that might have been a sob was her only reply.

"Please, John. You're scaring me."

"I…" His voice trailed off into silence.

"If something's wrong.. Anything.. Let me know so I can help."

His voice was surer now as he answered, "Even you can't help with this, Doctor."

"Whatever it is, please, let me face it with you." She was begging. She could feel tears forming in her eyes, and she didn't care.

At her plea, though, John finally stepped towards her. The moonlight streaming through the window hit his features and lit the jagged scab of the cut which still arced across his jawline.

She understood in an instant. He hadn't healed. Immortality had not been granted them all. He would grow old and he would die and he would be gone. Infinity had just become finite, and she could not imagine her world without him. The tears slipped from her eyes and slid unhindered down her cheeks.

He was instantly at her side, pulling her into his arms and cradling her against his chest as she clung to him, pouring her grief into his shoulder. Finally, after long moments, she quieted. "I don't want you to die."

His voice broke only a little as he spoke, "I don't want to die, either." He kissed her temple, and she realized her hair was damp where he had buried his face in it. "But I can assure you it won't be for a long, long time."

He was trying to comfort her. He who had believed himself immortal and had only just learned he was not. Her heart broke for him; she had never loved him as much as she did in that instant. She couldn't tell him that, though, so instead she said, pushing back a little so she could look up at him. "Not if I have anything to say about it, that's for certain."

John smiled at her words, the most pain-filled smile she had ever seen, and he spoke the words she dared not, "I love you, Helen Magnus. And if I am to have only one life-time in which to show it, then at least I can spend it by your side. If you'll still have me, that is."

And because the words had never come easy for her, especially in the grip of strong emotions, she answered him in the only way possible. Her mouth found his and their kiss, though tentative at first, grew quickly heated with the passion of their emotions.

Life was short; she would lose him soon enough. But he was there with her now, in the dark of her room. She could feel his heat through the thin fabric of her nightgown, and she couldn't resist. She didn't _want_ to resist. In that moment, she couldn't even remember a _reason_ to resist. So she gave herself to him, fully and without hesitation, and he took what was offered.

Afterwards, they slept in each others arms, flesh to flesh under the thin sheet, their love having, at least for the time being, pushed the shadows back into the future where they belonged.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

They awoke, with the rising sun, in a tangle of sheets and limbs. As full awareness returned, however, so did knowledge of the consequences should they be discovered. They could hear the boarding house coming to life around them, and knew they might have only minutes before the maid came in preparation for the day.

Helen quickly reclaimed her nightgown from where it lay strewn on the floor as John stood to put on his own discarded clothing. As he left the bed, she noticed the tell-tale stain spread across the bottom sheet. John would have to take it with him and she remake the bed with spares.

They were leaning down to remove the sheet before she got her first good look at him. She froze mid-motion. "John."

Something in her tone brought him to a stop as well. "Yes?"

"Your face… The cut…"

He reached up to trace the scab. Or, more accurately, the place where the scab had been. Overnight it had somehow healed. Completely. Leaving not a trace. "But.. How?" he asked.

She had no idea. She looked at him, at his face, free of scab or scar, as he stared up at her from where he still leaned over the bed. And at the sheet beneath his hand. The linen stained with her…

And she understood. Or was at least fairly certain she did.

John must have read something in her expression, for he followed her gaze down to the bed. His eyes widened in sudden understanding, and he glanced back up at her, fear and wonder at war in his expression. "Do you think…?" he finally asked.

"Yes," she nodded, her own excitement a match for his. "My blood."


	4. Recovery

She glanced up once more at the clock above the mantle. She felt certain the hands had stopped moving, though she was willing to concede her perceptions might have been a bit off. It had been only that morning that she'd last been alone with John - fourteen long hours since he'd pulled the sheet off her bed and ported out of her chamber. They'd met between lectures and over lunch since then, but always surrounded by others. And she desperately needed to be alone with him.

The problem was, the longer it took, the more nervous she became about seeing him. Which was absurd. He was still _John_ after all, regardless of what had happened between them. She only wished he would hurry up and get there, assuming he was coming at all, of course…. Her Comparative Anatomy lecture notes were doing nothing to calm her fears.

A flash of red behind her and one of her worries, at least, was gone. She turned in her desk chair. John stood behind her, holding out a single red rose. The tentative smile on his face made it clear she wasn't the only one nervous about this encounter.

She stood and crossed to him, accepting his offering. "Thank you."

"You're more than welcome." His voice, normally so sure and strong, broke a bit as he continued, "It was the least I could do."

She dropped her face to smell her rose, hoping to hide the blush she knew must be spreading across her features. John was not fooled. He reached forward to gently cup her chin, lifting her gaze back to his. "Regrets, Helen?"

"None…. You?"

He shifted his hand on her face, brushing her cheek with the backs of his fingers. The adoration in his expression answered before the shake of his head. "Never."

His hand moved again, slipping behind her neck as he bent to her. His kiss was tender at first, almost experimental, yet growing more demanding as she relaxed in his arms. After long moments which were over far too soon, John reluctantly broke off their embrace. "Not here," he explained.

She nodded, understanding. They'd come far too close to being discovered that morning. "Where, then?"

John didn't bother to answer but simply clasped her to him with an arm around her waist. The world shifted, and they stood in the sitting area of The Five's sanctuary beneath Churnley and Cheddar's Haberdashery. The gaslights glowed brightly and a fire burned in the grate, already warming the room against the chill fall air. "You prepared," she observed.

His earlier nervousness briefly resurfaced. "I didn't mean to presume…"

She placed a hand on his arm to still him. "It's fine, dearest. In fact, it's perfect."

He smiled at her praise. "I thought we might need a place to… talk… privately."

"Talk?" she asked, raising one eyebrow as she spoke.

"I didn't mean to presume," he repeated, ignoring her attempt at levity and growing serious once more.

She looked at him for several long moments, searching for words. He stood there before her, his heart in his eyes, open and vulnerable and hiding nothing. She had to make him understand: she was his now, as assuredly as if they had already spoken formal vows. What was given could not be taken back.

So she tried to tell him that. To make him understand. "You can John … presume, that is. I am yours, now and forever. No ceremony could make that more true than it now is." The words sounded awkward and foolish to her own ears, but John seemed not to have noticed. His expression changed, taking on an intensity she'd not seen yet, not even in the passions of the night before. With a low feral groan he pulled her to him, crushing her against his chest as his mouth descended on hers. And this time, pressed beneath him on the settee, skirts pushed to her waist, she found neither hesitation nor gentleness in his embrace.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

He shouldn't have taken her like that. He knew that. A part of him had even known it while he had done it Yet something in her words, in her expression as she'd looked up at him, had broken his control. In that moment he had forgotten reason and chivalry and even, though the memory shamed him, love. He had wanted only to claim her. And he had.

Helen stirred in his arms, waking. John held his breath, awaiting her reaction. Her eyes fluttered open,, and, unbelievably, she smiled sleepily up at him. He waited for her to wake fully, to realize what he had done and recoil. Instead, she reached up to him, tucking one stray strand of hair back behind his ear. "Where did that come from?" she wondered aloud and then, turning and nestling more deeply against him, she observed, sounding half-asleep again already, "Though I fear I'll be sore in the morning…."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The next evening found Helen back in their sanctuary in the shop cellar, only this time much earlier in the day, and without John. She was still certain that the key to his miraculously healed cut lay in her own blood - that somehow, through it, her own near immortality could be conveyed to him. Further research was necessary, of course, before she would even begin to contemplate exposing him to more of it than she already inadvertently had. She'd almost lost him after his initial injection with the Source blood, and she wasn't about to risk losing him again. Especially not now.

So she would go slowly and do it right this time. But she _would_ do it, of that she was certain. Because she refused to lose him; to let him die. Not _ever_.


	5. Plunging

Helen tapped the wire door of the cage. The white rat inside looked at her and blinked its red eyes once, slowly, before turning its attention back to the far more interesting scrap of sausage she'd just set under it's nose. For all intents and purposes, the animal appeared perfectly healthy.

Which, if Helen hadn't been expecting those results by now, would have been amazing. John had brought the poor creature to her yesterday evening after having found it lying half-dead on Essex Street. It was the eleventh wounded animal he had brought to her, the fourth since they had returned to London in March after completing their university studies. Each one had shown the same result: within eight hours of injection with a purified serum of her blood, their injuries were resolved as though they'd never existed. Well, except for the rabbit he'd brought while they had still been at Oxford, but that had died within three hours from massive internal injuries, her blood never having had a chance to work.

She left the rat to its solitary meal and moved to a rack of cages against the back wall, examining each of her former 'patients' in turn and making notation of her findings. They were all still alive and healthy, apparently having suffered no ill effects from her treatment.

Ten successful trials, and only one which had failed, and that for reasons unrelated to the serum itself. Her research had proven the injections to be both safe and effective. And, finally, ready for John.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

She hadn't told him what surprise she had planned for the evening, but he could guess. Her demeanor that morning as he'd escorted her to the Royal Free Hospital would have alerted him if nothing else had. Her hand had gripped his arm a bit too tightly and her eyes had shone a little too brightly. Most significantly, though, Helen had been unnaturally silent the entire walk, speaking neither of the clinical patients awaiting her that morning nor the experimental results of the night before. And it was the sudden silence on the latter which held the most significance. For he knew how far her research had advanced and had known for some time it was nearing an end. Or, in this case, a beginning.

Which was why, as they settled into a hansom cab outside her father's house, John wasn't surprised when she gave the driver his own address as their destination. Or, more accurately, their future address - that of the house he had taken in preparation for their marriage the following May. The cellar of which he'd already had converted into a laboratory for her use.

He had assumed correctly.

Helen looked up at him after directing the driver, biting her lip as she tried, unsuccessfully, to hide her smile. She studied his face for a long moment before concluding, "You've figured it out, haven't you?"

He laughed. "Yes."

She sighed in disappointment. "I'd hoped to surprise you."

"Your success, my love, can not _possibly_ surprise."

"John…"

Laughing, he added, "Besides, you'll have to learn to keep you emotions better hidden if you ever hope to surprise me over anything."

Her laughter joined his. "Perhaps. I'm just so…" She paused, clearly searching for the right word.

It wasn't hard for him to supply it, though he could understand why the word seemed insufficient. She practically glowed with the emotion. "Happy?" he asked.

She sighed, but this time there was no disappointment in the sound. "Yes, that's it exactly."

And, in reply, all else being forbidden even in the relative privacy of the cab, John captured her hand and pressed it to his lips. But her eyes as she looked into his above their clasped hands made clear she understood the unspoken promise of more.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

John had waited, more-or-less patiently, on the tall laboratory stool as she'd worked. Helen had insisted on a fresh blood draw, and so he'd had to sit, observing and commenting and occasionally holding and fetching, while she'd bustled about the lab.

She was nearly finished now, though, and she found that the nearer it came to time to do the actual injection, the more nervous she was becoming. It wasn't that she doubted the results of her research. She was thoroughly convinced this was the solution.

It wasn't that she doubted the serum's safety, either. It was simply that, previously, with the Source blood, she'd had the first go and the consequences of any errors in her judgment or faults in her method would have been hers to bear. This time the full risk fell, necessarily, to another. And not just to any other, but to John.

Which was why she paused as she stood before his stool, the purified serum loaded into the syringe in her hand. "Are you sure about this?" she asked.

"Aren't you?"

He was absolutely certain of her abilities, which, while flattering, did little to decrease her growing unease. "Yes. I am. It's not that. I mean…" She took a deep breath, unable to meet his gaze as she tried to explain, "I wish you didn't have to be first."

"There's no one else," he reminded her.

Which was, of course, the entire point, as well as the problem. "I know…"

He reached out to gently clasp her chin, forcing her gaze up to meet his. His smile, both gentle and certain, made it clear he understood. "This will work, my love. You _know_ it will."

Helen nodded and managed a small smile. She was finding it surprisingly hard to maintain her fears in the face of John's utter conviction.

His smile broadened in response to hers. "Then, if the doctor is ready?" he asked, pulling back his sleeve and offering his exposed forearm.

She still had her doubts - her fears. But she knew she always would, no matter how much research told her it was safe. He was too important to her; impartiality was made impossible.

So, despite her misgivings, she took his proffered arm and rested it on the laboratory table. Carefully positioning the syringe, she slid the needle into his arm, beneath the skin, and into his muscle. She paused then, thumb on the plunger, and looked up at him once more.

John didn't say a word, merely nodding his reassurance.

Helen took a deep breath, held it, and pushed. Her blood flowed into his. It was easy. And effortless. And in many ways the hardest thing she had ever done.


	6. Descent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _A/N: I know there are many historical inaccuracies here and in the chapters to follow involving the actual Ripper case. As they exist within the show itself, and this is, after all, fan fiction, I've chosen to stay as true to the show itself when a choice was necessary._

The city never slept. He could feel it, even at this late hour, alive around him The occasional clatter of a carriage on the cobblestones below, a voice calling out loudly enough to carry up to where they lay, a barking dog, a crying child; each noise a tale all its own. And the smells: manure and kerosene and smoke blending with the sweat of several million souls. It called to him, its energy feeding his own. He had to get out there, to become a part of it. He could not stay here, in the dark and the quiet. For like the city, he could not sleep, either.

It had been growing in him, this restlessness, since his injection with Helen's blood. He had felt suddenly alive. And whole. And powerful. He could go anywhere. Do anything. _Be_ anything...

He slipped from her side, out of the bed, and into his discarded clothing. He had hoped to find release in her arms, to keep the tension at bay one more day, only this time she had failed him. The energy remained, unabated, growing. The need for _more_ coiled inside him like a spring, yet he couldn't take more than she had already given. The four walls surrounding him felt suddenly far too small. They couldn't contain him.

He had to get out.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"Bit late for a stroll, sir, in't it?"

He looked up, startled, as the owner of the voice approached from the shadows. She was filthy, her unwashed hair a matted nest upon her head, her clothes barely fit to bear the name. But what struck him most were the eyes - dull grey gazing nearly lifeless from a face pale and wan beneath layers of dirt.

She sauntered up to him and asked, in a parody of seduction from which his every instinct recoiled, "I'm thinking, a ge'tleman like you, must be wantin' only one thing in these parts…." One finger, dry and cracked with long exposure to harsh air and even harsher weather, reached out to run down his coat sleeve.

Smiling weakly, she offered herself to him, and his disgust was complete. That she could even begin to imagine that _he_ \- he who had less than an hour ago left the bed of a woman superior in every way to this human filth - would even _consider_ the possibility of degrading himself with her.

And yet, he could. How simple to push her back into the shadows, against the wall. To lift her skirts and take what she offered until she screamed with the pain of it and begged him to stop and then maybe - _maybe_ \- the monster growing within him would sleep and leave him in peace and he could finally rest…

He hated her. Because he could not. He _would_ not. But she made him want to despite all the reasons he did not and he had to stop her. To _end_ her. The anger - the rage - the _fury -_ burned through him, consumed him. He stepped forward, swordstick somehow out in his hand, blood pulsing through his ears, the world gone red around him…

He woke up. Only it wasn't really waking because he hadn't been asleep. And he remembered it all.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

As he had countless nights before, John watched as she slept. She was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The rise and fall of her chest in sleep, the soft curves of shoulder and breast and hip concealed beneath the sheets, the spread of her hair a spill of gold across the pillow. All were as familiar to him as his own face in the mirror. More so, for he could close his eyes and see her there still, every detail etched onto his memory in perfect clarity.

Only she seemed somehow distant now. Untouchable and ephemeral. As if he would reach for her and find her gone. And part of him, deep down below where the monster finally slept, knew it was true. She was. But that other self, the one which had been growing in power ever day since he had received her blood, knew it was not. She was still there. She was still _his_. And if he were clever, and if he were smart, she still would be. And he was both clever and smart; she would be his forever.

Everything would be all right. The tension was gone and the rage along with it. He undressed and slid under the sheet next to her. Within minutes he was asleep.

The monster slept, and so did he

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

He had been certain it would not happen again. He would control the tension and resulting rage so that it _could_ not happen again.

But it did.

One week after his first murder, he found himself again, at night, wandering the streets of Whitechapel.

This time was easier, though. Better. This time when the blood surged through his veins and rang in his ears, he didn't deny it. Instead, he embraced it, let it consume him, every sense come alive with the raw power of it. He didn't simply walk but prowled like the predator he had become, searching and hunting until he found what he sought. Whom he sought. It was a sport, one he had become too powerful to lose. And her fate was sealed the moment he found her.

This time was easier. Infinitely better. Because this time was _fun_.


	7. Intermission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _A/N: If the show's writers can change facts about The Ripper case, then so can I._

He was as responsive and as thorough as ever; her desires and her pleasures coming always before his own. And since by now he knew her body far better even than she herself, where to touch and when to stroke and exactly how much to give or to take, he quickly shattered her completely. Only after she lay exhausted and sated beneath him did he finish himself.

Yet there was something missing, something indefinable which had been lacking in all their interactions for the last few weeks. And she wanted it back.

She wanted _him_ back.

John rolled off her and onto his side next to her in the bed. Facing away. Silent but not sleeping. Helen could feel the tension, his body taut with energy even after his release, his back a barrier between them. She had to break it, to somehow reach through it to him. So she followed him, curling against his back, one arm slipping around him, her palm on his chest holding him close.

"John…?"

"What?" He wasn't gruff, but the tone wasn't particularly inviting, either.

She continued anyway; she had no choice. "Is everything… Are you all right? Is there…?" Her concerns were so nebulous she was uncertain of where to even begin.

There was a long pause, his back still tense against her chest, her hardly daring to breathe. Finally, just when she'd begun to grow truly frightened, he relaxed in her arms and rolled over to face her. Reaching out, he gently tucked one wayward golden curl back behind her ear, caressing her cheek before withdrawing his hand "I'm fine, my love. Just… tired."

He really did sound tired. Exhausted even. But at least now his voice resonated with warmth, and his beautiful grey eyes as he smiled at her spoke the truth of his love through layers of weariness. And as long as that were true, nothing else mattered. Relieved, at peace once more, she nestled against him and, held close to his chest, fell asleep within minutes.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Amidst the hustle of every day existence, Helen found herself often forgetting just how charming John could be when he truly applied his mind to the task. And for the past week or so, he had certainly been doing that. Flowers delivered to her at the clinic, a Sunday afternoon picnic in Hyde Park, and most wonderfully of all, Hamlet at the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre. She had been hinting - broadly - that she'd wanted to see the theatre and to experience the play in Shakespeare's hometown for some time, but there had always been something else to do, some reason they couldn't attend. Then, this afternoon as they'd parted at her father's door after walking home from the clinic, he had surprised her with a pair of tickets. Transportation to Stratford-on-Avon several hours later had been no difficulty at all.

So now here they were, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in the darkened theatre. The performance was everything she had hoped it would be, but it was her companion who, as always, made the evening truly magical.

She glanced over at him and, as though his thoughts paralleled her own, found him gazing back. He smiled, that secretive knowing smile which still turned her insides to liquid and sent her heart skipping its beat, and, hidden by the darkness, rested his hand on her knee. He turned back to the stage, seemingly intent on the performance, but his hand remained where it lay, his thumb slowly stroking her thigh. Helen slipped her arm through his and, heedless of propriety, lowered her head to his shoulder. So closely together she could feel his breath whisper through her hair, they watched the remainder of the play.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

It was two weeks between The Ripper's fifth and sixth slayings, more than twice as long as between any of his previous attacks. During that time, the press speculated that perhaps he had finally abandoned his midnight pursuits and the killings would finally stop. They were almost correct.


	8. Consumed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rage should have subsided; it had always done so in the past. Yet as he stood next to the bed, staring at Helen as she slept, he could feel it still within him, coiled just beneath the surface. He knew it wouldn't be long until it forced him back onto the streets. Back to the hunt.

The rage should have subsided; it had always done so in the past. Yet as he stood next to the bed, staring at Helen as she slept, he could feel it still within him, coiled just beneath the surface. He knew it wouldn't be long until it forced him back onto the streets. Back to the hunt.

He had thought he'd beaten it. When he'd realized Helen could sense the change, that his secret was coming between them and that she was being hurt, he'd tried to stop. To control the monster. And he'd come so close to succeeding. He'd almost thought he had. But in the end, the urge had been too strong, the rage too powerful; his eventual defeat inevitable.

His love had failed her in the end. He had nothing left to offer but a trail of corpses and a future leading inexorably to the gallows. Because while he was good, nobody was perfect, and he knew now that nothing less would stop him.

Not if she couldn't.

But, then, it wasn't as though she'd really tried. She's known something was wrong, but she'd been satisfied with the easy lie. She hadn't even bothered to question his excuse or taken the time to notice his growing temper or realized he needed her to be there and to stop him and to figure out a way to make it all just go away… Maybe, after all, it wasn't his love which had failed but hers.

Only that wasn't correct. How could she possibly guess at what he had become? And if she had known, how could he possibly expect her understanding? Or, worse yet, her forgiveness? He had murdered - not murdered, _butchered_ \- six women. They were whores, and they were worthless, but that didn't change the fact of what he was. He didn't deserve her. He couldn't expect her love. One day, inevitably, she would know what he was, what he had become, and she would turn from him. Abandon him. _Hate_ him. Her love would become loathing and he would lose her forever.

He couldn't even bear to imagine it. She was his, a part of him. Losing her would kill him.

And he couldn't wait for it to happen. Because it was what he deserved. What he _needed_. To die. To stop. To be put down like the rabid animal he had become.

To be allowed, finally, to rest.

Only not tonight. He needed her next to him tonight. He couldn't lose her tonight.

John slipped into the bed, pulled her to him, and was soon fast asleep in her arms.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Helen woke with a start. Carefully extricating herself from John's embrace, she rolled over to look out the window. The sky outside was the dark grey of early dawn. She still had time.

Moving as quietly as possible, wanting to wake neither John nor the few servants who were all John needed for the house until after their marriage, she slipped on her robe and went to her laboratory in the cellar. Once there, she gathered the supplies she needed and, with a rapidity born of long practice, drew a sample of her own blood and transferred it to a small beaker. Reaching into the pocket of her robe, she pulled out the vial she'd hidden there the evening before. Opening its stopper, she carefully added a few drops of the reagent it held to the beaker's contents. The sample immediately turned a bright blue.

She had been correct. Assuming of course the reagent she'd secretly obtained from her father's laboratory worked, and she knew him too well to hope it might be otherwise.

Which left her with a very grave problem. But not one, fortunately, which she would have to face alone.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

John woke to find himself alone in bed. His immediate panic that she had somehow learned the truth and left in the night disappeared upon seeing her sitting by the fireplace across the room, staring into the still-smoldering ashes in the grate.

"Good morning."

She must have been lost in thought, for his words seemed to startle her. "Good morning." Her face was pale as she looked at him, and his fear returned.

He forced his voice to remain calm. "Is anything wrong?"

"No. Not exactly. Or, not necessarily."

He relaxed a bit, but not completely. She was obviously worried about something. Getting out of bed, he crossed the room to kneel in front of her. Taking her hands in both of his, he asked, "What is it, my love?" She bit her lip nervously, searching for the right words. "Just tell me."

She did just what he suggested. Taking a deep breath, looking him straight in the eye, she told him. "We're going to have a child."

The idea was preposterous. They couldn't have a child. _He_ couldn't have a child. "No."

She nodded emphatically. "Yes. We are. Father developed a test. I took it this morning."

"You mean…" The idea was beginning to penetrate. He looked down at her abdomen as she sat before him. "Now?"

"Not right this minute. But, generally, yes. Now. Already."

"We're not married." He was desperate for an excuse, any reason to deny her words.

"I know… But we will be within two months. I won't be showing, and first babies are often early -"

"No. I can't have a child." She didn't understand. How could she? He must not have a child. He couldn't possibly be given a child. Not after what he had done. Not after what he _was_. What would the creature even _be_?

But she had to insist. Had to argue. Had to _push_. "Yes, John. You do."

His fury erupted at her words. At her refusal to take back what she had said. At her insisting something as dark and evil as he had could ever be associated with a child. And in that moment he hated her. And their child. And whatever perverse God in heaven had done this to him. Had done this to her. To _them_. But most of all, he hated himself for being too weak and powerless to do anything about it - unable to control the monster or prevent the child or leave the woman or…

"No!" His hand swept out, sending the small side table crashing into the wall.

"John…?" Her voice was filled with fear, as was her face as he looked back at her. And she had no idea what he truly was. Why she should even begin to be afraid.

"No," he repeated, one last time. But this time his voice was steady as he spoke. The rage had burned through, consuming who he was. Leaving _him_ in control again. And he knew now what he had to do.


	9. Disclosure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> His pulse did not quicken. The blood did not race through his veins. There was no rush of adrenaline; no thrill in the chase. No joy in the kill. He brought her down quickly and easily like the prey she was, with the cold efficiency of the predator he had become. And for the first time, he did not leave her ruined remains where they lay as a reminder to them all of the frailty of their existence. The impermanence of their flesh. His mastery over death itself.

His pulse did not quicken. The blood did not race through his veins. There was no rush of adrenaline; no thrill in the chase. No joy in the kill. He brought her down quickly and easily like the prey she was, with the cold efficiency of the predator he had become. And for the first time, he did not leave her ruined remains where they lay as a reminder to them all of the frailty of their existence. The impermanence of their flesh. His mastery over death itself.

No. This time he brought what was left with him to a hidden place, to sit watching while the last of her blood seeped onto the cobblestones, running in dark rivulets between them, draining into the sewers below. Eventually, the bleeding ceased. It was finished. It was time.

He gathered up his prize. He would show it to her. Then she would have to understand. She would see it and finally know what he was. _Who_ he was. He could imagine the horror in her expression as she looked down upon his handiwork. The hatred in her face and in her eyes as she realized what he had brought her.

Only it was quite possibly too much. The shock might be too great. Especially given her condition. Because, even now, he didn't want to hurt her. Or to hurt …

Her. He didn't want to hurt her. He couldn't hurt her. That would accomplish nothing. What he wanted - what he _demanded_ \- was so much greater.

He wanted power. He _needed_ power.

Power not simply over life and death, but over love itself. To destroy even that most powerful of emotions. To be freed from the weight of it, the consequence of it, the need for it, he must _end_ it.

He would turn love into loathing. She would let him go. And at last he would be free.

The corpse slipped unnoticed from his arms, discarded like a child's doll onto the pavement. A flash of red, and he was gone.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Helen sat at the small desk in her bedroom, staring blankly at the journal lying opened before her. She had been attempting to read the same page for the past quarter hour but failing utterly. Not surprisingly, she had been similarly unable to concentrate the entire day, ever since John's shocked denial of her announcement that morning. After his outburst, he had returned her to her father's house and left again without uttering a single word, and she hadn't seen or heard from him since that time.

He would certainly return, though. Once he'd had a chance to accept the situation and to rationally consider their options, to determine the most proper course of action, he would return. Because he loved her, he would return. She was certain of it.

Over the next half hour she managed an entire page, though she recalled nothing of what she'd read, when the familiar flash of light behind her proved her faith correct. Smiling, she stood and turned to face him.

Her world shifted in that instant; it took but one glance.

Not because of the blood covering his hands or staining his clothing, or the clumps of organ and tissue still clinging to the fabric. It was the change in his eyes as he looked at her, hard steel staring through her. Lifeless. Cold. She shivered, chilled to her core by the terrifying stranger suddenly standing before her.

"John….?"

He shook his head, but there was nothing of humor in the smile which stretched across his suddenly far too-thin lips. "Jack," he corrected.

Intelligence was a curse; she knew the rest without his saying a word. It hung in the silence between them, crashing down and crushing her.

 _The Ripper._

She shook her head, still desperate to deny the reality before her. His smile grew wider, cruel in its stark simplicity. Her heart broke in her chest. "Why?"

His voice, when he finally spoke, lacked any trace of warmth. "Your fault, Helen."

"My…?"

He stepped towards her, and she couldn't stop an involuntary step away. "You made me what I am, Helen. It's been growing more powerful ever since you gave me your blood. I can't stop it." That smile again, freezing her to the bone. "I don't _want_ to stop it."

"But.. Those women…" The truth of it dawned on her, and she understood. Her blood had driven him insane. A side effect she couldn't possibly have seen in dumb animals isolated in cages. She tried to explain. "John, you're mad. Somehow - someway - we can fix this."

He laughed, the sound loud and harsh in the small room. "I don't want to 'fix this.' 'This' is who I am, now, Helen. _What_ I am…"

Only she didn't believe it. She wouldn't believe it. "No, John. You're wrong. That's the madness talking. Please. You have to let me try."

"Why?"

She could feel the tears welling in her eyes at his question, and it took all her self-control to keep them there. To prevent their sliding down her cheeks. "Because you love me."

He shook his head. "No."

"Yes, you do. And we're going to be married. And we're going to have a life together. We're going to have a _child_. You just have to let me help you find a way to end this madness."

"No. I don't."

"Please…. How can we…"

"Don't you _get_ it? Don't you understand what I am?"

She shook her head. "This isn't you."

"Yes. It is. Now."

"No. Please, John. Let me help you…"

"No."

"Then how can we…? Can I…?"

He smiled again, that same cruel smile. "You can't."

"Don't make me do this. Let me help you."

"I'm not making you do anything."

It wasn't true and he knew it. Yet maybe if she did this, gave him what he wanted, she would make him understand. Somehow get through the madness to the man within and give him the strength to fight for what he wanted. To fight for her.

She slipped the ring off her finger - his ring - and held it out to him. "I love you, John. Whatever part of you still remains, I still love. Madness can not alter that."

He snatched the ring from her hand and, with a low, feral growl, ported from the room.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Jack had failed.

She didn't hate. She still loved.

Which was impossible. Inconceivable. He was a monster, not a man. There could be no hope for him, not after all that he had done.

How could she still love a monster?

She must not understand. Even after everything, she couldn't really _know_.

The next afternoon he sent a servant to Helen with a hand-written invitation. It contained only a time and a location and was signed simply 'Jack'.

He would make her understand. He would make her know. He would make her _see._

He would teach her to hate.


	10. All that Remains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He was awakened by a banging on the door below. Throwing on his robe, he quickly exited his rooms and made his way downstairs, hoping to get there before the noise woke his poor housekeeper. As he neared the front door, he could hear her voice crying, "James! Please. Open up…"

He was awakened by a banging on the door below. Throwing on his robe, he quickly exited his rooms and made his way downstairs, hoping to get there before the noise woke his poor housekeeper. As he neared the front door, he could hear her voice crying, "James! Please. Open up…"

Helen. He had no idea what could have brought her alone to his front door at such a late hour and in such a state, but he was certain it could be nothing good.

He quickened his pace. She was in his arms almost before he had fully opened the door. "Helen. What is it? What's wrong?" he asked as he gently led her inside the house.

"It's John…"

"Is he all right? Where is he? What happened?"

She was shaking her head. "No.. He's not.. It's…" She inhaled sharply, her breathing jagged, perilously close to tears.

He settled her onto the couch in front of his sitting room fire and placed the kettle to heat on the grate. Sitting down next to her, he took both her hands in his and asked, "Where is John, Helen?"

She hung her head and wept.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

It was quite some time later that, a cup of tea in her hand and the first of countless tears behind her, Helen finally answered James' question. And what she had to tell him was so horrifying, so impossible to even begin to contemplate, that he knew at once it must be the truth. For she spoke of John's insanity and of the reckless experimentation which had caused it, and she destroyed his own pride with the secret of Jack the Ripper's identity. Then she recounted her final meeting with John, and how he had still refused her offer of help, ignoring her pleading and committing cold blooded murder in her sight. And how, ultimately, she had been left with no option but to pull the trigger, to end his life and his murders.

Or so they both hoped.

Through it all, unspoken but clear, James heard the most important truth of all. His friend - his _former_ friend - had broken Helen's heart and she had no one left but him to help her through this time. And though his loss paled in comparison to her own, there was no one else who could even begin to understand the pain she must bear at the complete betrayal of the one she once held most dear. The one she _still_ held most dear. No one else she could even dare tell. He would give her what help he could, though he feared he must fall tragically short.

Only much later did James learn her final secret. The final piece of the tragedy. Though for that, ironically, he could truly offer a solution.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

She awoke slowly from the ether, awareness flowing like a wave across her, dulled still by the morphine she knew flowed thickly through her veins. She was in a bed, her bed in fact, a single candle on the nightstand the only illumination against the room's darkness. Just outside the door her father and James spoke in hushed whispers, trying to give her what peace they could while remaining close at hand in case they should be needed.

Her hand went reflexively to her abdomen, finding the bandages there. She gently spread her fingers across them, imagining what lay beneath. At the emptiness which lay within, deep inside her. If the procedure had gone well, and she had to believe that it had, her child - _their_ child - was gone. Safely removed and frozen and left to wait for a safer time when there was no chance the monster that had once been its father might return to do it harm. And perhaps for a better, more progressive time as well, when lack of husband or father would no longer condemn them both to a life of misery and shame.

But for now, she was alone. For while she had father and friends and career to fill her life with meaning and purpose, those things could never replace the life she had lost. The life _they_ had lost. The future sacrificed in a desperate attempt to grasp more than any man or woman had the right to have. And now all that remained of the dreams they had shared was a small frozen bundle of tissue. That new life they had made together was the only fragment of John she could ever hope to have.

It would have to be enough. And it would be. Someday.


End file.
